Again, Aziraphale is making mental leaps that Crowley simply isn't equipped to keep up with, and by the time he has caught up with them, the angel is on top of him, staring into his eyes with frankly unnerving earnestness. Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, butting his forehead into Aziraphale's shoulder.
'Nnoooo, he protests into it, batting uselessly at Aziraphale's back with a flapping hand. Only one, because his other arm is pinned beneath some part of Aziraphale. 'Don' need... f'giveness,' he mutters. 'I know, you know, we both know, 'sssnot-- doesn' matter.'
Except that his brain, sticky with liquor, is sliding inexorably down the blessed path of recollection, unhelpfully presenting Crowley with a montage of sense memories. The crunch of bones and the scorched-meat ozone smell of flesh under unnatural fire and the stupid openness of Aziraphale's eyes, giving him permission. The awful cannonball of guilt and resignation sitting heavy in his gut with the knowledge that stopping is not an option. Lucifer's eyes on him as he lazed and watched.
With his face pressed into Crowley's neck, Aziraphale can't actually see his expression, but still, Crowley doesn't trust it. He can feel his face doing something, unknown and possibly dubious. The solution is plainly to just me something less expressive.
'M'gonna,' he says, and flaps his hand again in vague illustration. Moments later, he's got no hands to flap, and Aziraphale bumps down slightly atop him as the man-shape shifts smoothly into that of a serpent.
Crowley's usual shake-shape is quite large, nearly as thick around as a man's thigh in the middle, and probably twice as long as the couch. He hisses, drawing excess coils up onto the cushions and squirming under Aziraphale's weight. He doesn't think he's ever actually been drunk in snake-shape before; it's... disconcerting.
no subject
'Nnoooo, he protests into it, batting uselessly at Aziraphale's back with a flapping hand. Only one, because his other arm is pinned beneath some part of Aziraphale. 'Don' need... f'giveness,' he mutters. 'I know, you know, we both know, 'sssnot-- doesn' matter.'
Except that his brain, sticky with liquor, is sliding inexorably down the blessed path of recollection, unhelpfully presenting Crowley with a montage of sense memories. The crunch of bones and the scorched-meat ozone smell of flesh under unnatural fire and the stupid openness of Aziraphale's eyes, giving him permission. The awful cannonball of guilt and resignation sitting heavy in his gut with the knowledge that stopping is not an option. Lucifer's eyes on him as he lazed and watched.
With his face pressed into Crowley's neck, Aziraphale can't actually see his expression, but still, Crowley doesn't trust it. He can feel his face doing something, unknown and possibly dubious. The solution is plainly to just me something less expressive.
'M'gonna,' he says, and flaps his hand again in vague illustration. Moments later, he's got no hands to flap, and Aziraphale bumps down slightly atop him as the man-shape shifts smoothly into that of a serpent.
Crowley's usual shake-shape is quite large, nearly as thick around as a man's thigh in the middle, and probably twice as long as the couch. He hisses, drawing excess coils up onto the cushions and squirming under Aziraphale's weight. He doesn't think he's ever actually been drunk in snake-shape before; it's... disconcerting.
'Tha'sss better,' he decides.